Our very first tomato

When we moved back to Nashville, I made a vow. I vowed that I would grow my own tomatoes. All those years we lived in the desert, I bemoaned the lack of grass and wished for a yard. But I also missed things like tomatoes--things that you just couldn't grow in a part of the world that stayed above 100 degrees for almost half the year. Tomatoes. The really good fresh kind that my parents grew in our backyard when I was a very little girl. The kind that your kind friends give to you because they know you love them and they have a surplus. The kind that you could just bite into like an apple, letting the juice run down your arm.

So naturally, when it came time to start planting seeds, I was hellbent on growing my own tomatoes this year. No matter what it took. I was going to grow some tomatoes, by God!

But of course, I am notorious in our family for having a black thumb. I tend to unintentionally kill plants that are supposedly hard to kill. I neglected a cactus to death, and I didn't even know that could be done. I killed mint in my yard about ten years ago. I wonder if I give out some terrible deadly electric energy, like the character Rogue in the X-men movies. (I cannot believe I just referred to a comic book character on my own blog on my own free will. But I digress.) I even fretted about having a baby because hello, my track record is not so great.

Luckily, I have managed to keep William alive for two years and counting. He is healthy. He has not starved or frozen to death. That gave me some new confidence. It lasted until I managed to kill two different batches of tomato plants lovingly raised and given to me by the gardening teacher at our church, Miss Ginny. Along the way, I also killed a basil plant. Things were not off to a good start, to put it mildly. I planted the seedlings too early, and the cold got them. They wilted almost before my eyes. I told myself that the third time would be the charm. William and I straightened our shoulders and headed off to Home Depot to buy some sturdy plants and some fertilizer.

And lo, here they are, about two months later:















All the things that I have successfully grown, together in one place!















And so it is fitting that the first thing....er, person...that I successfully grew...so far...got the chance to pick the very first tomato. And here he is, triumphantly bearing it aloft:




















Look at the tomato! It's all real! Okay, yes, it had a big blemish on one side, but it's been there since it first started to grow. And once we cut it away, we could eat the rest. And oh my, was it good. Oh my.




































I only used the transplant fertilizer when I physically transplanted the plants from their containers to the ground. So except for that, they're more or less organic. Definitely pesticide-free. (Ask me sometime about how I had to unearth a bunch of deliberately buried rocks and bricks (!) out of my little corner garden before I could plant my little fledgling tomato plants. That's a fun story.)
















Really, I'm so proud. Doesn't this look like such propaganda for organic gardening?















Well, the tomatoes are organic. Not-so-natural Goldfish crackers and graham crackers comprise a good part of the little boy.

Mommy, not Mama

William has taken to calling me "Mommy" most of the time now. I hear an occasional "Mama" but it's mostly "Mommy" now. And he's started calling David "Daddy" instead of "Dada," too.

I don't know precisely when he made the shift, but I know that it seemed to occur around the time that we went to Natchez. At least, that's when I picked up on it. It's funny how it makes him sound more grown up, somehow. I mean, "Mommy" is still a word that young children use. But it seems less babyish than "Mama," and I'm not sure I can even explain why. Because it's an evolution in his speech? Because he adds it to the end of whole sentences, rather than just blurting out random words here and there?

Perhaps.

It's one of those small changes that are at once quiet and startling. Like seeing his long legs when he's sitting in his carseat, or seeing how far down his feet hang when he's riding in his stroller---and then remembering and actually seeing for an instant, in a brilliant flash of memory like the flash of a camera, when his legs were short and chubby or when his feet barely reached the edge of the stroller seat. I hear "Mommy" and it emanates from the mouth of a small boy, not a baby. But I can hear "Mama" coming from the mouth of the baby, too. And I can still see the baby in my head. But then again, the image of the small boy is so strong, so vibrant, that sometimes it takes actually looking at pictures of the baby for me to realize how much William really has changed. I don't fully realize the contrast until I really see it.

This boy



















is very different from this boy:

















Well. Except for the smile.

Brunch time

I love the delight that William always has for things that I barely even notice. The pair of stone lions in these pictures guard the door to an antique store next to Le Peep, the restaurant where we ate brunch this morning. I've seen them plenty of times and never given them much thought, but to William, they were irresistible.

"Lions down dere! Want see lions," he said, running off down the sidewalk to check them out, up close. "Hewwo, lions!"

























































And what's a better prop for a good game of hide-and-seek or peek-a-boo that a four-foot-tall stone lion?



















After we hung out with the lions for awhile, it was time to eat brunch--you know, the whole reason we were there in the first place. William not only behaved beautifully (hooray!), but he ate his entire plate of food. Okay, I had two small pieces of pancake, and William insisted on feeding a couple of bites of scrambled egg to David, but other than that, he polished off his entire meal.

Don't believe me. Look at his plate here:
















And he washed it down with some (more) milk. I want to note here that the menu states that the children's entrees are designed for children ages 12 and under. So we can suppose that there are 10- and 11-year-olds out there eating the same amount of food as my two-year-old.

That's right. My toddler is about to outgrow the children's menu. My parents have always been amazed by how much William eats, and my dad started saying during our last visit to Natchez (after watching his grandson pack away the food) that William eats as much as some adults eat. And of course I like to joke that he eats more than his father already. But you know...it's kinda true!

At this rate, how are we going to be able to feed this kid when he's (gulp) a big hungry teenager?

I fell in pool

How to Induce a Heart Attack in Three Easy Steps:

1. Take toddler to swimming pool.
2. Glance away.
3. Turn back around to see toddler tumbling, head-first, into said pool.

Don't worry. William's okay.

But I'm sure you want to hear the story, or else you wouldn't be here, right?

Karen and I took our three children to the Traceside pool this morning, after a mean old park ranger told her that we couldn't participate in a local nature program because we hadn't made advance reservations. Grumble grumble. Anyway, the kids were ready to frolic outside, so we just moved the frolicking to the swimming pool.

William so loves the baby pool that he rarely, if ever, tries to run off. He never wants to do anything to endanger his chances of getting to come back. So he behaved nicely, played happily with Colin and Olivia, and didn't put up too much of a fuss when we decided the kids had had enough sand and surf for the day.

So while Karen and I were gathering up all our stuff, William was still engrossed with crouching at the edge of the baby pool and playing with a few of the pool toys that someone else had brought. He was so engrossed that he leaned over too far and...sploosh! He dropped like the top-heavy toddler that he is, but quickly started to roll over and surface. And thank God for Karen, because she darted right there and pulled him out. The water's not deep at all, and he was already coming up out of it, but still, I'm glad she was right there.

William, poor little guy, sputtered through all the water streaming down this face and through his eyelashes and stuck out that lower lip. He cried a few freaked-out tears, but he recovered pretty quickly, considering how shocked he must have been that he had just completely and unintentionally submerged himself, head-first, in the pool. I tried to carry him back into the pool with me, sort of a "get right back up on the horse" type of thing. I don't know if it worked or not, but it was just my instinct, once I knew he was okay.

All afternoon, William kept opening his eyes very wide and saying, "I fell in pool," like it was a big piece of news that only he was privileged enough to disclose. Sort of like when he threw up last week and then kept announcing, in a hilariously serious voice, "Food came out my mouth!" It's all in the delivery, I guess. "I fell in pool, Daddy," he told David when David got home from work this evening. Luckily, David, who'd already heard the story, was savvy enough to not overreact to this little nugget. He said something very mild and non-overreacty* like, "Oh you did, did you?" And he asked William if he breathed in any water when he fell in, and William shook his head, seriously and definitively, as if he were the specialist called in to consult with the primary doctor and had All the Answers, "Noooo."

Hmmm. I wonder how long he'll remember that he fell in the pool? Will he be telling all the ladies at church and his teachers at school how he fell in the pool, and will everyone then wonder if they should call child protective services? Is a social worker (other than Diane, I mean) going to show up at my door and conduct an evaluation? Do we need to go on the lam, or will that make things worse? (Where exactly is the lam, anyway, and how does one go on it?) He's fine, everyone, really! He ate about a hundred pretzels this afternoon and corrected my singing of the ABC song. He requested peach after peach after peach at dinnertime, and he ran his typical joyful naked laps before bathtime with absolutely no problems whatsoever.

Anyway, I've mostly recovered, too. I don't think I will need any long-term therapy to fully recover, but I will not rule out the possibilty of a stray nightmare or two. Or a hundred.

*Yes, I just made that word up. But you knew what it meant, didn't you? Uh huh.

Multi-tasking

William gets clean and practices his letters all at the same time.















He's such a good multi-tasker.

Picking out produce

Diane and I took William downtown to the Nashville Farmers' Market this morning. I'd never been before, but I love a good farmers' market, so off we went.

Unsurprisingly, it was great! These sorts of places totally bring out the gatherer tendencies buried in my DNA. We loaded up on some early tomatoes, some peaches, a couple of watermelons, some squash and zucchini. I don't know how it came to be that I apparently don't know anyone who is actually growing zucchini and would therefore be willing to foist some off on me for free (hint, hint, if you are such a person), but that's okay. I also bought a small jar of local honey, and Diane bought a gorgeous terra cotta planter. We debated about picking up a small matching planter full of herbs, but we didn't, and now I am starting to wish we had. Oh well.

I also very nearly walked out of there with a blueberry bush...or three...since I love blueberries more than just about any food other than tomatoes. But I resisted. For one thing, I'm not sure I could have fit all three of us, plus our produce, plus a bush in the car. I'm thinking that it might have been sort of mean to cram my son and a big bush together in the back seat of a hot car and expect them to play nicely together on the drive home.

William was a champ. He rode nicely in his stroller and didn't complain. One farmer even gave him a banana as a treat, so he beamed his thanks and proceeded to stuff his face. Later, another man from the same booth gave him two more bananas to take home. That's William's kind of place: free bananas and lots of 'em. Also, he loved looking at everything. Diane gave him a huge sweet potato to hold, and he was fascinated by some of the large zucchini that were as big as his legs. I feel pretty confident in writing, too, that I think he'll enjoy the stuff that we brought home, once he gets a taste of it.

It was a nice way to spend a hot summer morning. It reminded me a little of when I was little, and I'd accompany my mom down to the farmers' market to pick up all the veggies for the co-op she was a member of. It seems like those trips resulted in a lot of purple hull peas, but my memory may be faulty. I have good memories of those trips, but I haven't been tempted to eat purple hull peas in a long, long time. I think I'll stick with my tomatoes and zucchini.

So tonight, we'll be having roasted summer vegetables and sliced tomatoes. And after dinner, we may be total southern cliches and take off our shoes and sit out on the back porch and eat watermelon. Sounds pretty good to me, anyway.

Can you see this?

Look! It's William singing the ABCs!

A hug does make it better

The instinctive urge to protect your child from seeing unpleasant things sometimes bumps right up against the unavoidable.

I had a headache today that may have developed from not drinking enough water or from waiting too long to eat lunch. The headache made me nauseated, which got worse as the afternoon wore on. I picked up William from school and after a very fast trip to Publix, we came home so I could collapse on the sofa. I felt terrible because I had promised him a trip to the swimming pool, but I just couldn't face the pool today--actually, I couldn't face the long walk uphill to the pool, let alone the pool itself.

So I plunked my impressionable young son down in front of the TV and proceeded to play three back-to-back episodes of "Sesame Street" for him while I lay on the sofa and felt queasy. Finally, the inevitable occurred. Unfortunately, my inquisitive little son toddled into the bathroom after me. Poor little guy was worried about his mama, but I was,um, otherwise engaged, I suppose, and I just sort of waved him frantically back and hunched over the toilet. But he came back right up to me a few seconds later and said, "I sorry mama sick" and then "I want mama feel better soon."

And then he bent over and dropped his little arms around me hugged me. Because he knew that's what I do to make it all better. And he wanted to make it all better for his mama.

If that's not a glint of the sublime amidst the sordid, well, I don't know what is.

If You Give a Toddler a Novel...

I used to eagerly look forward to the latest release by my favorite authors. The new Ann Patchett. The new Jhumpa Lahiri. Even the new Marian Keyes. Well, I still do eagerly anticipate the latest novel or collection of essays or short stories by my favorite writers...it's just that my stable of favorites has grown to include some new names.

Tonight I was surfing Amazon.com for an item to add to my order to get the free super saver shipping, and I clicked on the "we have recommendations for you" button. Lo and behold, one of the books was recommended to me is a yet-to-be-published addition to the "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie" series by Laura Numeroff and Felicia Bond. It will be released this fall and is titled "If You Give a Cat a Cupcake." And I let out a little squeal of delight.

And not only that, "If You Give a Bear a Brownie" is scheduled for a winter release. Two new books in one of our favorite series! And that really is exciting because not only does William adore them, but I actually really do like those books. They're short, they're funny, and the illustrations are clever.

Sometimes, William gets hooked on a book that doesn't excite me as much. He'll demand that we read it over and over, and yet all I can think of is ways to hide the book until he forgets about it. Primo examples are a couple of the books we received free from the state this year--it's a great program, and I wholeheartedly endorse it, but oh my, could someone not have found a better book than "Big Brother, Little Brother"?

Or he'll get really into a book that takes forever to read. That's not so bad if you can convince him to let you only read a portion of the book. I love "Frog and Toad Together" more than many (most) children's books, but sometimes I just don't want to read all five chapters of it before naptime. Reaching a two-or-three-story truce is much better. A friend of mine once picked up a new children's book at a bookstore and eyeballed it for about five seconds before intoning, "Too many words." I feel like a terrible person and mother for saying this, but yeah, sometimes William's books have too many words. I've buried the otherwise delightful "Strega Nona" deep within the books in William's room because I don't have the energy to read the whole thing in one sitting. Please don't take away my English degree.

So when he gets really into a book that I like and isn't super-long, I rejoice. We may get a little weary of reading "If You Give a Pig a Party" for the four thousandth time (but who wouldn't?) but at least it's short and cute. Hallelujah!

Happy Late Father's Day

I'm embarrassed to be this late about doing it, but I want to wish all the daddies in my life a happy Father's Day. That includes my own daddy, my father-in-law, my grandfathers, my friends who are fathers, and last but definitely not least, my husband.

William with his daddy and his daddy's daddy on Father's Day:
















We had a relatively quiet Father's Day, with a family supper here at the house. I made spaghetti, and Diane made strawberry cake. William pronounced the cake "delicious," which cracked everyone up because it's such an adult-sounding word, and it just sounded so funny coming out of his mouth! But well, the cake WAS delicious, so what else could he really have said, you know?

But just so you know, just because I am late in formally wishing everyone a happy father's day, it does not mean that I do not appreciate all the fathering that you all do.

Random father anecdote: David showed William our DVD of "Finding Nemo" for the first time recently. I'd forgotten...or maybe I never really appreciated...how scary parts of the movie can be. But it's not the sharks that scare me anymore...it's the prospect of losing your child. Gah! Perhaps nervous parents like me shouldn't watch this movie after all. William loved it, however. But David mentioned that he does have an all-new perspective on it--and newfound sympathy for the father clownfish--now that he's a father, too.

Someone should make a list: Things You Should (or Should Not) Revisit Now That You're a Parent. And it should come with warnings, like "Do Not Watch This if You're Prone to Anxiety" or "This Will Make You All Sniffly Now." And it should definitely include big red flags for anything that might set off the Dead Baby Alarm.

Sandy

Since it was raining (hurrah!) this morning, William met up with his buddy Leland at the Monkey's Treehouse. Leland immediately plunged right into the big sandbox right in the middle of the room. William, however, was not so convinced that he wanted to play in the sand.

At first, he was ready to charge right in there, too. Then he actually felt the sand on the bottom of his toes, and he hesitated.

"Uh oh," I whispered to Mary Clare and Chris. "David was afraid of the sand when he was William's age. He didn't like the way it felt on his feet. I wonder if that's a Wyckoff trait that's been passed down."

We all cheered William on, but it didn't work. He ran off.

But he came back a little later, ready to be challenged. I unbuckled his sandals and he determinedly walked back up to the edge of the sandbox. He finally took a few tentative steps, and moments later, it was if he'd been playing barefoot in sand his whole life.

I thought that was a good thing. Until he flung a big cupful of sand over the top of his head. We brushed and wiped and brushed, but his scalp remained stubbornly coated in a fine layer of sand. When we were outside and a beam of sunlight shone on William, you could see a layer of dusty gold sand, shining through his hair.

Four shampoos. That's how many it took to get the sand out of his hair tonight. At least, we think the sand is out of his hair now...

It's not my child

I had a wonderful moment today at the bookstore.

I had a moment when I was not that mother. I was not the mother of that kid. Yeah, it's probably not very compassionate of me to be relieved that it wasn't my son who threw the extremely heavy bead maze at another small boy, but that's how I felt. Relieved.

The mother sitting across the train table from me whispered, "I've been in that exact position, too." She, too, was relieved that it wasn't her child.

I felt bad, of course, for both the mother of the little boy who heaved the big wooden mass across the room and for the mother of the little boy who blocked it with his tummy and arm. Both boys started wailing--one because he got hit by a big heavy block of wood studded with beads, and the other because he got scolded for throwing it and removed from the play area.

For about three minutes, the air was completely filled with the loud, urgent cries of small boys who were incensed about their lot in life. And my child was not one of them!

Instead, William was sitting complacently in my lap, urging me to read more of "Duck for President." He looked a little alarmed by the wailing at first, but he quickly grew bored and squirmed in my lap, demanding that I keep reading.

And so I did. And the other kids kept playing. And almost every single mother in there either shook her head in sympathy for those two moms because after all, haven't we all been there?

Wyckoff Look-alike Meter

Look what I did!

MyHeritage: Look-alike Meter - Geneology - Family search


I saw this on my friend Jenn Fenenoz's blog, and I just had to make one of my own. However I think this one is a joke. Anyone who has seen William knows that he looks far more like David than me. He looks more like his daddy, but I think his temperament is more like mine, God help us all. When I was a little girl, I used to say "cheese!" for a camera and screw up my face into this huge squinty-eyed grin. Guess who's started doing that recently. Uh huh.

Actually, I should make a new chart that has Grandaddy Aaron's picture as an option, since that's who William really resembles!

Anyway, this was fun.

First sighting of the water table

How do you know it's summer at last?

Why, it's the first sighting of the water table, of course!
















Released from its umnatural winter habitat (the garage), the domestic water table, or as it is known by its Latin name, the mensa fontis, unfolds its plumage and shakes off the dust in early summer. It then takes up temporary residence in a grassy backyard, typically becoming most active on sunny days and early summer evenings.

The water table's bright colors and water-soaking ability tend to attract small children. Although the water table does not have its own significant call, you can typically deduce that one is in the vicinity by the high-pitched shouts and squeals emanating from its following of the aforementioned small children.

Yes, we dragged the water table out of the garage after dinner, rinsed it out and encouraged William to splash to his little heart's content.
















However, he was enthralled by his daddy watering the trees. So he figured, I've got this whole water table's worth of water and a watering can...let me help, too. And so he did. He wanted to make sure the trees all got a nice cool drink of water on a warm summer evening. He's a thoughtful little guy, William is.




















We're having an early heat wave here, and frankly, I haven't wanted to take him outside during the day that much. But last night, around 7 p.m., it cooled down enough to feel pleasant outside. We doused the little prince in bug spray and set him loose. I foresee many more evenings like this ahead of us this summer, and that's just fine with me.

Making connections

Every once in awhile, I experience one of those unsettling moments where I realize that my child is paying attention to everything. And he's remembering it all, too.

It's amazing to me how a child's brain develops and evolves. Does anyone here remember how I fretted in the early months of William's life? I worried, "How is he ever going to learn anything if he's just got me to teach him? How do I teach him things? How will he ever learn?" Remember how I methodically read stacks of books to him and tried to explain complicated scenarios to him, back when he couldn't even hold his own head up? Remember how I even tried to explain the 2000 presidential election to him at one point?

The weight of the responsibility staggered me, perhaps even more than just being responsible for his general health and welfare. How was I going to raise a productive citizen who could talk and read and be a benefit to society? Heck, forget all that high-mindedness: how was I even going to teach my child how to tie his shoes and ride a bike?

Today, in the car on the way home from my summer book study at church, William and I were discussing his love of his Babybug magazine. It comes in the mail each month, and William lives for the days when he gets his own item in the mailbox. (And yes, we were actually having a conversation. William's got definite opinions on things these days, and he's not afraid to express them. He must have inherited that trait from his father.) And I said something about how when he's old enough to read, we'll subscribe to another magazine.

William replied, "I can't read yet." But he said it in a tone that conveyed that he both understood what that meant and that he didn't expect it to be a permanent condition. He can't read yet. But he knows that he will read eventually.

And I realized, I worried for months that he wouldn't roll over. Or crawl. Or walk. Or get teeth. Or say words. Or say lots and lots of words. And he's done all those things. And I didn't even really do anything to facilitate it. But he's been paying attention, all these months, and he's put it all together. I've never coached him on grammar or pronouns or things like that, and yet, he's coming out with his very own sentences--real sentences--now. Because he's listened to me and his father and his grandparents and his teachers, and he's started making connections. He remembers words and concepts, and he puts them together.

And for an instant, sitting in the driver's seat, I was almost stunned with the feeling that that is really a small miracle.

Home again, home again, jiggity jig

Just so nobody thinks we're dead, I just wanted to say that we arrived safely back in Nashville on Monday night. Yesterday, we ran around like crazy, and today, I took Mom to the airport to fly back to SoMiss.

Whew!

Can I just say how nice it is to finally sleep down the hall from William again? Not that he isn't totally charming when he's reaching out to touch my face while crooning "Good Monning, Mama! Hewwo! I wuv you! Wake up, Mama!" Oh, my, the "I wuv you" is an absolute killer. It's actually worth it to be woken up at the crack of dawn to hear his little cheerful voice saying that, but the thrice-nightly blanket calls were completely wearing me out. That's even with Mom taking William duty for an extra hour or so each morning to let me sleep in a little.

So it's good to be back in our own separate rooms. I've been conferring with other parents of toddlers, and the sentiment is universal. Separate rooms when traveling are all good. Bunking together in one room is pretty much all bad. But temporary. And it was worth it to spend some time in Natchez.

We do miss Mama Judi and Grandaddy Johnny, though. They were very nice to put up with us and our ocean of Thomas the Tank Engines, Knuffle Bunny books and shoes for almost two weeks. We left waves of toys, books, sippy cups, and raisins in our wake, and they didn't complain.















































It was also very meaningful for me to attend my Mama Lou's 90th birthday celebration. I was unable to make it to my Grandaddy Bill's 90th party back in December, so it was especially important to me to make it to this one. Mom organized a big birthday luncheon at the historic Eola Hotel last Saturday, and we had about20 relatives attend. Mama Lou even got a little bit choked up when we asked her to blow out her birthday candles; it's not often we can pull together all of her living relatives, so I know it must have been special for her.

Me and Mama Lou:















And Mama Lou and her great grandson:


















Mama Lou and Grandaddy Bill, who are my father's parents, are very special people, and I've been lucky to have them in my life for so long. Not many women in their 30s can say they have three living grandparents, but I can. And I wanted William to be there, too. He won't remember, but I will. And I can tell him about it, just like my parents always tell me about my visits with my great-grandparents. My parents have a fading photograph of me sitting on a giant pumpkin in the lobby of the assisted living facility where my great-grandmother lived. I don't know if I really remember visiting her, or if I've just seen the photo and heard the story enough times to incorporate them into my own memories. Either way, I'm glad that the memory, wherever it came from, exists for me.

William and the Larson men:































Me and William (couldn't leave those out, could I?)

natchez update

Update on William's Great Adventure in Natchez, Day 8:

Well, I've always joked that William will be eating me out of house and home by the time he's in high school. But now I'm starting to wonder if that day is coming much sooner than high school. William's been eating Mom and Dad out of all their tomatoes and grapes and cantaloupe. I think Mom's already had to go to the store to buy more tomatoes at least twice. Maybe three times? I've lost track. But hey, can I really complain if my child wants to gobble up fruits and veggies? I think not.

William hanging out with his Grandaddy Johnny:


And being silly with his Uncle John on our daytrip to Hattiesburg:


And attending church with Mama Judi.


The reason he looks a bit sadder than usual is, er, well, I managed to cram his feet into his Sunday shoes that morning, and er, perhaps I shouldn't have. Add another bullet point to my "bad mommy" list. It looks like I'm going to have to break down and buy new church shoes for William after all. I mean, sure there's a fine tradition of young children hobbling around in ill-fitting go-to-meeting shoes--I remember wadding up kleenex in my white patent leather Capezios to take the pain of a blister away--but I think I'll try not to purposefully inflict that on my child. Unfortunately, I'll have to wait 'til we get home to buy shoes. Apparently no store in Natchez sells children's shoes. (Isn't that bizarre?)

The upside: he finally has a legitimate excuse to use up all those new Spider-Man band-aids that I bought and stashed away (and which he found because he apparently has a band-aid homing device).

ANYWAY. I would say, "but I digress," but I think that's clearly painfully obvious already. William is having a lovely time. I worried that he might be upset that there are no big balloons to see this time, but he seems to understand that was a special thing last fall. In the meantime, he's getting spoiled by all the attention from his grandparents, from their friends, from the neighbors.

And I think he's enjoying the chance to spend time outside. Each night before bathtime, we take a walk around the neighborhood, and always, there are at least a few people on their front porches who call out, "Hi, William!" as we make our way leisurely down the sidewalk. Plus, he gets to say hello to all the neighborhood kitties and look at all the flowers in the neighbors' yards and gardens. Is there anything more charming than a toddler bending over to smell a rose and smiling because he liked the smell so much?

And he loves hearing the grand old church bells chime the hour. "Church bells, way up high," he says, nodding as the bells ring in the distance. "Way up there."

But for all the fun, I know William misses his daddy. David's got a sore foot right now, and several times today, William has come up to me with a serious face. "Dada has boo-boo," he informs me solemnly. "Dada has booboo on foot. Go doctor." And I reassure him that his dada will be just fine. (So David, please be just fine, okay?)

Two new things

We've only been in Natchez two days, and William has already done two new things.

He met a horse named Pudding this morning:



And he won the first cake in a cake walk at a benefit dinner at the Marketplace Cafe this evening:


Apparently 36 is William's lucky number! That's the number he landed on. He got to pick out the cake that he wanted, and of course, he chose the one with the M&Ms on it. We're about to dig into it, so I'll write more later.

P.S. Just so you know...the inflatable toddler bed is perfectly serviceable...if you discount the fact that it does not contain my toddler, who likes to roam around and open drawers and get into other mischief...

Another haircut, ho hum

My son, bless his little heart, seems to have inherited my hair. That is, it grows ridiculously fast and has a tendency to get big and wavy the longer it gets.



















Even William twisted a lock of hair around his finger and proclaimed himself "shaggy." Hee hee.

















So, in the interest of looking a little neater and more presentable for our trip to Natchez tomorrow, I took William to Great Clips for a haircut.




















I braced myself, loaded down with snacks and books for distraction, and we walked in the door. As it turned out, I didn't even need to worry. William did beautifully. He willingly sat in the big chair and let the lady cover him up with a cloak. He even sat still while she cut his hair with the scissors.

He did reach out from beneath the doggie cloak, however, and hold my hand. He was so brave, with his chin up, but he wanted to make sure Mama didn't leave him. For those of you without children, this one of those moments where you are so glad in your heart that you are a parent to this child.

Near the end, the stylist asked if I thought he'd let her trim up the back with the clippers. I said, "Well, we can see." And to my shock, he actually let her do it! We talked up the "it tickles!" aspect so he wouldn't be scared, and I guess it worked.

I think William earned his lollipop, absolutely. You can bet I lavished praise on him for being such a big boy and being so well-behaved. I think he was proud of himself, too.

His hair's still wavy, and still has the tendency to get big, but at least it's shorter and neater now.

















Side view:

I am stuck on band-aids...

How you know you have a toddler on your hands, number 23: You find yourself plastered in random band-aids.

I remember how I loved band-aids when I was a kid. I lovingly plastered one on the molded plastic tail of my rocking horse, in fact. And apparently, the love is either 1) genetic, and thus has been passed down to my offspring, or 2) universal among all small children.

William not only loves band-aids, but he is obsessed with them. Until yesterday, I kept four or five boxes of various types of band-aids in the top drawer of his bathroom cabinet. We had Sesame Street, neon colors, clear, Finding Nemo waterproof, and Rataouille waterproof. Used to be, he'd open the drawer and look at them, and maybe take one of the boxes out to look at, but that's about it. If he needed one, we always gave him his choice, and he was pretty good about spreading out his choices. Then he started requesting band-aids for his various non-existent boo-boos, which I humored. Most of the time.

But it's gone beyond that now. Way, way beyond that. He has figured out to open the box, pull out a band-aid, take off the plastic wrap, remove the adhesive, and then put the band-aid on himself. All by himself.

As if that wasn't enough of an achievement, he had to share the love. Yesterday, I walked into the computer room and found David looking ruefully at his arm, which was plastered with three purple band-aids. "This is going to hurt," he said, sadly. I turned around and confiscated all the band-aids remaining in the drawer and put them in a basket on top of the vanity which, for now. William can't reach. (He pitched a big old fit at this, as you might expect.)

And today, my son marched into my bathroom with a Sesame Street band-aid, unwrapped and ready to go. He then announced that I needed the band-aid for my boo-boo, and when I said, "No," he was very, how shall I put this, put out. Which is why I woujd up with an Elmo band-aid stuck randomly to my left knee. I have no wound there. But I have a band-aid lovingly applied to it. Which is also why the band-aid is still there, six hours later.

William accessorizes

You know, they say the only thing that separates us from the animals is our ability to accessorize.



















I always knew my son had style!

(I'm just a little sad, though, that you can't see the plastic tote printed with monkeys that he was also carrying around just before I dashed off in search of my camera.)

A change of heart

Okay, so I'm about to admit something Big.

(deep cleansing breath)

I've had a change of heart about Elmo.

That's right. Elmo. THE Elmo. I've changed my mind about Elmo.

It occurred to me that I should be really grateful for Elmo. Because of Elmo and the distraction of his little segment on "Sesame Street," I was able to conduct a phone interview today with a woman who is president of one of the country's biggest nursing organizations. Because of Elmo's picture on his diapers, my child will nearly always consent to wearing a diaper. Because of the Elmo potty chair, my child is at least faintly interested in maybe, just maybe peepeeing in the potty one day. And because Elmo always wears his helmet when he pedals his tricycle around on television, I've been able to start preparing William for the reality that will accompany his first trike.

I know. This is a pretty huge confession on my part. I used to hate, hate Elmo. I cringed just in anticipation of hearing his screechy voice emanating from some otherwise harmless toy. I used to swear that I'd never ever ever buy anything that anything remotely to do with Elmo. When a neighbor gave us a baby gym that featured Elmo and sang snippets of Elmo songs, I smiled weakly and tried to figure out a way to disable the on/off switch.

Well. Times change.

I still don't plan to buy Elmo clothes or shoes, but that's mostly because I don't much care for any clothing with characters. But if an Elmo fork convinces my child to eat his green beans or an Elmo potty gets him to start potty-training, well, heck. Who am I really hurting if I keep rejecting the furry little red guy? Can we say "cutting off your nose to spite your face"?

So I'm a convert. Well, a convert with some caveats. I would still prefer to not have to listen to him unless I absolutely have to. I will always prefer not to have to listen to him. And truly my heart will always lie with Cookie Monster and Ernie. But Elmo makes my life better. He makes life with a stubborn, opinionated toddler better. So I have to give Elmo his props.

Whew.

Okay. I feel better now.

(waves sign that says Give Elmo a Chance)

Games kids play

I love the little games that kids make up to entertain themselves. No one but a child could invent these things.

William is sitting right next to me on the floor, playing his own latest game. He's transferring a bunch of wooden blocks and a handful of tangled Mardi Gras beads back and forth between the block tray, a blue tupperware bowl, and a San Diego Zoo lunchbox.

Every time he gets a big mess of beads and blocks in the bowl, he puts the lid on, shakes the whole thing and crows, "Beads! Bocks! Beads!"

Why is this fun? Who knows? The important this is that William thinks it's fun. He has his own little system, which I don't quite understand, but whatever it is, it's working for him.






























However, the lunch box can be problematic. He just put a bunch in the lunch box and hooked it shut. But then he can't get it open. "Can't take beads out," he fretted. "My beads! Help!"

Yes, I helped him. What kind of mother do you think I am? Sheesh.

(If you answered, "The kind who wrote it all down before you helped him," well, er, okay, I plead guilty as charged.)

Anyway, I am marvelimg at his creativity. I once read something that proposed that we hit our creative peak around age seven, and then for most of us, it starts to tail off after that. I wish I could have preserved some of the creativity I had at age seven! I remember making up countless stories and games and songs, just to entertain myself. Imagine if I could channel that now.

Guess I'll have to write down everything that William does until age seven instead...

Mother's Day redux

Can I just tell you that I just got a Mother's Day card in the mail from my little brother, and it made me sort of tear up?

Sniff.

John turned 30 on Saturday, and I still can't believe that. It seems like not that long ago that he was running around in Winnie-the-Pooh footy pajamas. Now it's his nephew who likes to slide around on the kitchen floor in Winnie-the-Pooh footy pajamas.

Anyway, we had a lovely Mother's Day here yesterday. Well, except for the fact that William woke up very early yesterday morning with a major asthma flare-up and a low fever. The boy has quite the sense of timing, doesn't he? We hadn't heard wheezing that bad from him in a long, long time. I guess I should just be glad that my Mother's Day did not include a trip to the ER for nebulizer treatments. These are the times when I'm glad that David takes care of sick kids for a living. A dose of oral prednisone and a bunch of doses of inhaled albuterol and flovent later, William seemed to be doing much better. Thank goodness. And he's even better today: only a half-dose of oral pred today.

Here is the traditional Mother's Day photo of mother and child:

















And another one:


















And one more:



















William was wearing his Aaron Wyckoff outfit: the yellow button-down shirt and khaki pants. However, unlike Aaron Wyckoff (his grandaddy), William did not have shoes on. And his shirt's not tucked in. But close enough. Ironically, Aaron was not wearing his yellow button-down shirt when he and Diane came over for the big Mother's Day cookout yesterday afternoon. I guess I should have saved that outfit for Father's Day, but I just couldn't resist. And I had to put something on him since, until the picture was taken around 5 p.m., William was still wearing his pajamas, stained with Motrin, oral pred, and other assorted toddler detritus.

Pre-Mother's Day musings

I just got flowers a day early for Mother's Day! Hooray for red roses, purple irises and yellow lilies. Thanks, William (and David, for facilitating).
















Two years ago, I celebrated my first Mother's Day. I don't remember a whole lot about it, honestly. William was about three weeks old, and I hadn't had more than about two hours of sleep in a row since he was born. Maybe three hours a couple of times. Anyway, the day is kind of a blur. I went back and reread my blog entry from that day to refresh my memory and to awwwww over the teeny little little boy that I held in my arms in the pictures. He was wearing a tiny 0-3 month onesie with baseballs and catchers' mitts printed all over it, and he was so little!

Just look at him.



















Hard to believe it's the same kid, isn't it?




















I guess baseball is the constant. We'll always have baseball.

Anyway, I do (vaguely) remember still sort of being in shock over my new status back then. I realized that I didn't really feel like a mother, but I did feel exhausted and sort of stunned by all the changes that had happened. I knew that I had a child for whom I was responsible, but I felt like I didn't even know all the questions to ask, let alone any of the answers. I felt like I didn't really know this small person very well, even though I knew that I loved him. I didn't really know how I loved him, though, and I felt sort of fragmented--which was due, in part, to exhaustion, but also to my attempts to cope with all these changes that were happening.

In short, I knew I had changed and that I would continue to change, but I didn't really know how it would unfold.

Two years later, I take being a mother for granted. It's just part of who I am now. I'm used to changing diapers and unfolding strollers. I'm used to sippy cups and doctor's visits and board books and car seats. I'm used to William being in my life. I'm used to him being a central part of my life.

Of course, he still changes every single day, so I'm still changing, too. But I feel a lot more certain of my identity right now than I did when that picture was taken in front of my rosebushes one mid-May afternoon two years ago. I am not only a mother, as I have sometimes self-deprecatingly referred to myself because I'm still not working full-time yet. But I am comfortable with being a mother. I have accepted that there will be nights when William wakes up crying and I have to go into his room and soothe him back to sleep. I have accepted that he has needs that only I and his father can meet, but I have also accepted that he has needs we cannot meet by ourselves and must count on others to help us. I have (grudgingly) accepted that he is his own person and I cannot force him to like something just because I like it. I have accepted that this is a process for both of us. I've even accepted the fact that I am always going to worry about him and whether he's okay.

Not that I don't despair sometimes--or often! Heck, how many times have I fretted about him being a wild man at the library or during Kindermusik? How many times have I worried that I'll never get a job again? How many times have I worried that if I do get a job, will we be able to work out a good situation for William? How many times have I wondered if maybe he'll grow out of his asthma, so I won't have to wait anxiously for the wheezing that inevitably crops up when a cold or virus threatens?

But at least I think I know what questions to ask these days. And I know, without an ounce of doubt, that I love my son, and can't even think about my life without him.

Happy early Mother's Day to all you mothers out there.

I'm tough

This morning, William wanted to eat his dried green bean things from Whole Foods in the car on the way to school. So I put a handful in his snack-trap cup, handed him a cereal bar and strapped him into his car seat.

A few minutes later, I guess he took a large bite of the cereal bar while he already had a mouthful of green beans. He started to cough.

I said, "Are you okay, William?"

And he said, "Yesh. I'm tough."

I be right back

The scene: young mother (okay, young-ish) sitting at the kitchen table, dressed in her pajamas, with toddler scampering merrily about.

I was reading the paper and slurping up the remains of a bowl of Special K in the kitchen this morning, while William was running from one end of the house to the other, trying to decide what to do with himself. He finally brought me a couple of books to read. I read "Madeline" and "Corduroy" to him, sitting there at the table, enjoying the familiar words and the weight of my toddler on my lap. When I finished, he hopped down and ran off.

But before he disappeared from my line of sight, he turned around.

"I be right back," he said confidently. "I'm going in there. I be back, five minutes. I be right back."

And off he dashed.

I'm wondering, wow, how many times have I said some variation of those words to him?